Dear Jeff,

You are a great pitcher--and even with your current 14.32 ERA: you still have fans and You. Still. Are. A. Great. Pitcher. I have watched you since the year 2000 and remember thinking to myself, "Wow. That guy's hot," and by hot I mean totally hot--you're insanely tall at 6'5" (God knows I like 'em tall), but you are gorgeous, too (I particularly love your hair)--but your arm is hot. When you pitch, it's a thing of beauty. Your arm is, at once, rubber and rock--which is the stuff of great pitchers.

But when I watch you play, and you start to get upset because the beautiful arm of yours is going a little rubbery-out-of-control, your emotions fuel the pitching. Which tends to either: a) Completely focus you, making you a scary man to watch dominate or b) Completely unfocus you, making you a scary man to watch being dominated. When it's Option A, it's so much fun to watch and I'm rooting for you to sit those bitches down. When it's Option B, it makes me want to give you a hug and a cup of Celestial Seasonings Honey, Chamomile and Green Tea to calm you down.

You're a rock star, what with the arm and the hair and all. But that broody rock star thing can only last so long before it starts to overtake you.

I don't know if Nate Robertson (also total hottie, but in an accessible-sexy-bearded-hottie sort of way) is going to be able to get you this message, but I hope he does: Your fans still follow your career--no matter how many teams you transfer to, even if that means keeping tabs on the Evil Empire (read: Yankees). Please don't give up. We have not given up. And please give us the Jeff Weaver of Old.

Love,
J

P.S. I think Jered's a total copycat.

Labels: baseball, detroit tigers, jeff weaver, los angeles angels of anaheim, los angeles dodgers, new york yankees, pitcher, seattle mariners, st. louis cardinals

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